


Home Is Where I Want to Be

by memai



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, James/Dad critical, Nerd Rage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23039563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memai/pseuds/memai
Summary: Is home truly where the heart is? The Lone Wanderer struggles with his place in the Wasteland after losing his father… when a ghost from Vault 101 calls for his help.Torn between his identity as a hero to the people of the Wastelands and his roots from Vault 101, he soon journeys back into the bowels of his underground home, and realizes the truth may not be as easy as he had hoped.
Relationships: Harkness/Male Lone Wanderer
Comments: 21
Kudos: 21





	1. Prologue

  


  
_Plasma rounds fired upon the scientists like acid rain._

_No matter where they ran or where they hid, they were always found, always met at the end of a charged up barrel of an energy rifle._

_Hulking suits of power armor hissed with pressure as soldiers mounted their positions and fired away at any and all who would oppose them. The stink of blood quickly filled the air, as did the stagnant ozone from a just-fired energy weapon. Alarms blared loudly all around, echoing off old concrete walls and metal pipeworks, while automated voices droned out safety warning after safety warning._

_It didn’t look good._

_All James could do was beckon for his son to make his escape, while he made his final stand before the Colonel. He would not let them win. That bastard Autumn might’ve cornered them, but he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of winning._

_No, not today._

_Today was the day Project Purity would come back to life. And maybe, just maybe, he could right the wrongs he had made._

_Maybe he’d finally make it up to his son._

_As life escaped from James, all he could do was smile proudly at the final sight of his son, helping everyone mount a brave escape from their assailants. Jensen led the scientists out, making sure every single person had made it through the exit before he would follow behind them, assault rifle ready to defend them._

_His son… His own son, James was so proud of how far he had come as a young man. He watched as the boy didn’t falter, he didn’t flinch. As James’s limbs began to grow stiff and heavy, his last words spoken in his heart were, “That’s my boy, that’s my son.”_

_And then all he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat, slowing down with every passing moment._

_Revelation 21:6.  
I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life, freely._   


* * *

  


  


* * *

  
“Ladies and gentlemen, I hate to say this, but the Enclave’s at our doorstep, and Three Dog isn’t gonna like what he’s gotta tell you next…”

The whole of Rivet City was practically glued to the radio. 

Layabouts the troublemakers crowded around Belle Bonnie’s tiny bar radio. Merchants and visitors chewed on their squirrel bits nervously at Gary’s Galley. The whole world hung on Three Dog’s every word.

Chief Harkness hated it. 

Everything had gone to hell in a handbasket and all he could do was just wait. A new threat was now making themselves at home, right at their door, as if the Super Mutants just down the river weren’t trouble enough. And these Enclave guys had better armor and bigger brains than the greenies that plagued the Potomac.

And to top it all off? The Lone Wanderer’s missing. Dead? No, he had to be missing. He couldn’t be dead, it was too soon to tell.

He couldn’t be dead, right?

“Godamnit.”

Three Dog’s voice rang loud and clear through every radio that tuned into GNR, “Folks, it’s looking bad. Eyewitnesses report not seeing a single sign of our beloved 101, same goes for the science team that went with him. Enclave soldiers ran in guns ablazing, and this old dog thinks they don’t take prisoners.”

Citizens both from all decks murmured nervously as the news fed in.

“Is this the end of our 101? You’ll hear it here first, folks!”

Chief Harkness slammed a fist down on the metal table, startling Flak and Shrapnel. 

“Hey, Chief, you okay?” Shrapnel tried, but it was no use, Harkness buried himself in his frustration.

His breaths were ragged, tense and frightened. The synth side of him ran probabilities and predictions, and each result yielded nothing that satisfied the anxiety his human side was facing. And worst of all? He couldn’t make a dashing rescue, not without risking the very lives he had sworn to protect in Rivet City.

Facts, figures, digits, time, dates, information scrambled through his mind, trying to make sense of the situation.

Probability of survival: Low.

“Goddamnit, Miller,” Harkness rubbed his temples, “Goddamnit.”


	2. Chapter One

  


  
It wasn’t how he wanted things to end.

A dramatic walkout, a bigger argument. 

Not this, anything but this. 

Jensen Miller, the Lone Wanderer, hadn’t been on the best terms with his father, James, since they reunited and brought back Project Purity from death. What should have been a moving reunion turned into fights and tears and everything else in between. Jensen always started the arguments with how James had lied this whole time. James always defended with how he had little choice in the matter, at the time, it was life or death.

They always met at an impasse, and neither one wanted to back down.

But so much had changed since their last fight. The Enclave attacked Project Purity, and while the Brotherhood soldiers did all they could to shelter him and the other scientists, everyone barely escaped with their lives. Even through the chaos of the past few days, Jensen had stayed numb through the death of his own father.

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to feel?

Dad was gone. Dead. No matter how he tried to rationalize it, how he tried to break it down into components and rearranged to fit into a narrative he understood better… Dad was dead.

_Dead._

He ran a hand down his face, rubbing hard, the cold water from the faucet hardly registering. The sounds of life from the Citadel returning to his senses-- the smell of ozone from practice rounds in the courtyard, the laughter of off-duty Paladins echoing down ruined hallways, the smell of burnt meat and coffee wafting through the rooms. Life had gone on as though the Enclave didn’t just beat down the doors of Project Purity, and Jensen didn’t know if that was supposed to calm him, or frustrate him. With so much death in the Wastelands, so much violence and despair, people still went on living.

As much as he wanted to muster optimism or hope, Dad was dead and there was nothing he could do to save him or change the way things were. Project Purity had failed yet again.

He supposed in the face of such a tragedy , he just had to suck it up and move on.

“Miller?” a voice called from behind, and Jensen turned to find Sara Lyons leaned against the frame of the old wooden doors of the Citadel. They had no room for an outsider such as himself in the barracks, but he made do with the old offices and a spare mattress, “You about to leave?”

Jensen nodded, the bags under his eyes felt like they stretched on for days. He was in rough shape, he knew it. She knew it. 

“You can stay a little longer, you know,” she stood up a little straighter, hands laced in front of her in an anxious knot, “The Elder said it’s alright.”

Jensen didn’t know why he said it, but out came, “You mean your dad.”

Sarah was at a loss for an answer, and tried her best with, “Yeah. My dad.”

“You get along with him?”

Sarah played along, “Sometimes,” and then shrugged, “We fight a lot.”

Jensen’s jaw tensed up. He let his dark curls fall over his dark brown eyes, tears stinging the corners, threatening a full on bawl.

“I know he loves me. I know he worries, it’s a big awful world out there,” Sarah said after a long, awkward pause. Had that been the right thing to say? Was there anything else she could’ve done to make him feel better? She was better at guns and tactics, not console grieving vaulties, even if she did like the kid.

Jensen nodded absently. No tears today. No crying, he told himself. He had to make a move, and soon, if he wanted to get back to Rivet City in one piece. No point ending the family lineage so soon.

“I know your dad felt the same way. He must’ve,” Sarah tried yet again.

She pretended not to see the way his knuckles clenched at that. Pretended not to understand why he stuffed his bag a little more forcefully. Ignored the way he jerked on his jacket, covering up the ‘101’ that had become so eponymous to him.

She didn’t say anything to him any more after that, save for a very gentle, “Steel be with you,” as he left the great mechanical gates of the Citadel, back out into the Capital Wastelands.

There goes One-Oh-One, she thought to herself, the last, best hope of humanity.  


* * *

  
“Someone! Somebody, help! Help!” 

Officer Hannon cradled the body of his dying son in his arms, still clad in his Tunnel Snakes jacket, hair still perfectly styled.

“Someone! Help! Please!” He blubbered as he carried Paul Jr. down corridors and walkways, “God fucking damnit, can anyone help?”

Alphonse Almodovar was the first to answer his panicked calls. The Overseer squinted up at the bright lights of the hallway, peering up at the large clock that hung over the atrium. In dull green colors, it read: 3:45am.

He sighed through his nose, this had better be good.

“Good god, officer, what’s the meaning of this? What’s happened?” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, trying to focus on the sight before him.

“My son! Please, he’s not moving! Overseer, please, help!”

That woke him up.

“What?”

Other Vault residents began to peer out of their apartment windows, even Amata couldn’t help a curious glance from her bedroom.

But Officer Hannon was a man lost to grief, his cheeks slick with tears, “Paulie’s…. Paulie wasn’t moving, he-he’s still breathing that’s… that’s good right?”

“I’m… not a doctor, officer,” Alphonse tried, barely hiding the panic under his tone.

Then, movement. Jerky and sick, as Paulie began to blubber. His hands shook with a frightening tremble, as if calling out to his father.

“Paulie? Hey Paulie are you there?” Officer Hannon fell to his knees, cradling his son’s head in his lap, “Paulie? Junior, c’mon, answer me, please.”

Alphonse Almodovar did not believe in miracles.

“Everyone, get back to your apartments, now,” he commanded, “Let the authorities handle this.” Through his Pip-Boy, he issued a command for available officers to report to the scene immediately.

Officer Hannon let out an anguished cry as Paul’s lifeless body lay limp on the cold vault floor, “Damnit… Damnit!”

Amata could only watch in horror, clutching tightly onto her pink nightdress with a frightened fist.

‘How could things have gotten so bad?’ She thought as she slunk back into the darkness of her own room. She never liked Paul or the rest of the Tunnel Snakes, but seeing Officer Hannon like that… even she couldn’t help but feel terribly for what had happened.

‘If only we had a doctor…’ she thought, ‘But he left us didn’t he?’

She didn’t mean to sound so bitter. Dr. James Miller must’ve had his reasons. But what reason could be so great that he’d leave everyone? He was their doctor. But then her own father had also done nothing to protect Jonas Palmer, the only other medic. 

Amata walked back to her bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at the photo of her and her father on her nightstand. It was taken at Jensen’s 10th birthday party. And ever the authority figure, Alphonse Almodovar cracked only the smallest of smiles, in contrast to her own beaming grin, probably out of politeness rather than actual affection.

Her eyes focused on the streamers, the balloons, and the name written lovingly on the handmade banner they hung on the wall: Jensen.

She sighed at the memory of him. Her only friend, the only person who cared about her as a person. But he was gone too, wasn’t he?

The apartment door closed with a pressurized hiss, and she jerked her head up in response. Looking out, she saw her father pacing angrily in the living room. His hands rested on his hips as he muttered complaints to himself.

She steeled herself with a breath as she walked to him, caution dripping from her voice.

“Daddy?” She tried, “Daddy, is everything okay?”

At her call, he stood still, and remained quiet for a long time.

“Daddy?” Amata approached him carefully.

She could see his own eyes were wet with tears, though she couldn’t be sure if it had been from seeing the loss of Officer Hannon’s son or if it had been from the stress.

“Do you want me to make you some tea, Daddy?”

A beat, then two, then Alphonse answered, “No, thank you.” His tone was severe and cold, and a chill ran down Amata’s spine.

“O-Okay…,” she looked back to her room, then to her father, “I’m… I’m going to try and get some sleep.”

When he turned to look at her, Amata knew what would come next. That wasn’t her ‘daddy’, he was now ‘the Overseer’. She swallowed a lump in her throat, every instinct told her to run and hide, but fear kept her feet planted where she was.

“Amata, darling? Take a seat, I want to talk to you.”

“A-Are you sure, daddy?” she tried, sometimes he could be reasoned with, could be soothed back into the father she loved, “It’s really late, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t asking, Amata.”

She drew in a sharp breath, and readied herself for whatever may come. Slowly, she walked to one of the floral-printed sofas, and sat herself down the furthest away she could be without causing offence.

And then he went into a rant that frightened her into disassociation. He yelled, his face flushed red from anger, the veins on his neck popping from under his skin. She stared into nothing, letting his words wash over her.

It hurt less that way. Scared her less. Easier to pretend to be a bored 19-year old than admit to how much you feared for your life in your own home.

“This is all your doing, Amata! Do you know why?” His words were laced with venom.

‘Ah, this old song and dance’, she thought. Her eyes weren’t focused on him at all, but she still answered, “I don’t know what you want me to say, Daddy.”

And then he struck her right across the head, startling her.

“Daddy!” she yelped helplessly.

“Because you let them get away!” He raised his hand again and she raised her own in self defense, “Because you wouldn’t cooperate!”

His hand came down hard against her wrists, and she sobbed, “Daddy, stop!”

“Officer Hannon’s son is dead because of you and your little friend! My residents are dying because of your stupid actions!”

“How was I supposed to know this was going to happen?”

“Use your head Amata!” Another strike, another shriek, “Think!”

He raised his hand again, and she saw an opportunity. She leapt from her seat, ducked under the next strike, and ran to her room, quickly locking the door behind her and it hissed shut.

“Do not hide from me, girl,” he yelled, slamming his fist against the metal wall, “You can’t stay in there forever,” he banged on the frame, “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to face the consequences.”

“Daddy, why?” Her eyes desperately scanned the room, trying to find something, anything to fix… whatever this was. Some kind of answer, something, anything!

“Your little friend is gone,” he stopped then, and recomposed himself, “There’s no one you can hide behind, no one you can call now,” were the Overseer’s last words, before he cut his losses and retreated away from her door.

Call for help?

Amata looked down to her Pip-Boy and then to the terminal in her room. The gears in her head began to turn, and with newfound determination, dashed to her desk. She would take matters into her own hands. If this Vault was going to survive this madness, she had to.

Whatever it would take, she had to do whatever it would take.  


* * *

  


  


* * *

  
That had been one hell of a detour.

All Jensen Miller had to do was walk out of the Citadel, and there were the Enclave, ready and waiting. Paladins and Knights alike held their positions behind sandbags and whatever means of cover they could scrounge up in the chaos, eyes steely as they readied themselves for another restless wave of Enclave soldiers.

They didn’t have to tell him to take the less direct route to Rivet City. The smouldering ashes and the sharp smell of metal and chemical smoke was all the direction he needed.

Jensen mapped the path out in his head. Around the main city ruins, snaking through tunnels, and coming in from the opposite direction of the Jefferson Memorial. He’d have to deal with the Super Mutants, and the Raiders, and the various critters that lurked in the ruins, but he’d take them over the Enclave any day.

Plus, it would give him time to think. Time to stew in that long held anger, quietly bubbling inside of him ever since he escaped Vault 101. He’d never forget that feeling, the heat rising up in his chest when Amata told him what had happened. All his life he had thought his father was a stand up man, a man who was selfless and loving. Now, after everything he had learned; about the purifier, about the grand escape, about his reason for finding a vault in the first place, it was a betrayal he would not soon forget. 

‘Selfish, selfish, selfish’, Jensen thought as he kicked the rocks along the road.

He didn’t understand at first when Dr. Li disparaged his father and the sudden reappearance in her life. He thought she was ungrateful, crass, cold, dismissive-- he wanted to find his Dad, he could be in a lot of trouble! But now he knew, now he understood. He wondered if it would have done any good if he told her as much. Would she care? Or would she just say she had told him so?

Jensen sighed, defeated. 

It would be days until he’d reach Rivet City at this rate. All he wanted was to be back with Harkness, back with people he knew cared for him. But he had to rest, his legs ached terribly, and his injuries still sore, even with the advanced medical care from the Brotherhood medics. 

Off the road, Jensen found his oasis in the husk of an old car. The seats were still in place, and the shade would shelter him from the harsh afternoon sun.

Flipping the dial on his Pip-Boy, Jensen began to help himself to a bottle of water and a box of bland crackers. Nothing like the rehydrated wonders found in Vault 101, but food was food, and he learned better than to complain about what he could find out here in the wastes.

Settling down, he tuned the dial to pick up the familiar sound of Three Dog and Galaxy News Radio. But what he heard was another voice over the radio instead.

The voice of a ghost.

A voice from Vault 101.

_“It feels like you left home a long time ago, but I know you're still out there,” Jensen’s throat tightened hearing Amata’s voice, “I just hope you’re still alive to hear this.”_

He listened to the message over and over again. Each time it felt less real and more like a dream doomed to haunt him until the end of his days.

Jensen didn’t know what to do.

He had long abandoned the notion of ever returning to the vault. The most he did was stare wistfully at the overlook where his former home had been hidden, and wondered if life truly had gone on without him and his father.

It seems like it had not.

Another notch in the growing count against his father’s selfishness. Jensen hadn’t meant to think of it that way, but… how else could he put it? The vault dwellers weren’t wrong to blame his father-- he was their only doctor, their only means of medical care. That he would abandon them to chase some old dream… abandon his only family.

No.

He wouldn’t be anything like his father. This was a sign, he thought. This was his chance to make it up to his home. He won’t abandon them in their time of need. He won’t go after some selfish dream to leave these people to their fate.

Rivet City could wait. The Brotherhood could wait. Right now? He had to do the right thing. These people needed him. His home needed him.

Jensen Miller broke off the path towards Megaton, and made a hard, hasty right towards the old vault entrance. He slung his bag over with new purpose, and pulled his goggles back down over his eyes.

_“I changed the password to the vault entrance to my name. If you're hearing this, and if you still care enough to help me, you should remember it.”_


	3. Chapter Two

  
He was still the Lone Wanderer. At least that’s what he told himself.

He had a reputation. The ‘last, best hope of humanity’ Three Dog once said. Jensen Miller didn’t believe it the first time he heard it. He wasn’t sure if he had the right to. Mickey the water beggar still wailed by the road towards Megaton, clutching his stomach as he tried his luck with any passing merchant that would spare a glance. It was Jensen who always came to his aid. He twisted the cap off his bottle and poured what he had into the beggar’s bucket, “Drink up, Mickey, heat’s getting worse.”

Everyone he had met said he was giving up too much, too soon for too many people. He told Harkness and everyone else that it was just something he was compelled to do. How could he see someone in need and not help them? Wouldn’t you want someone to help you in your time of need? He knew the wastes didn’t operate on his moral compass, but he believed if he just… tried to make things better, improvement would follow soon after. Humans were humans because they cared for each other, right?

Now? He wondered if his actions really were selfless. Or if they were some means of paying back for his father’s own narcissistic ambitions.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Transmission repeats._

Jensen blinked back into reality, and turned off his Pip-Boy radio. He steeled himself for whatever lay behind the entrance to his old home. He squared his shoulders, and pushed the old, creaky wooden door open, scratching loudly against the rocky dirt road.

The darkness took some adjusting to. He pulled his dust-covered goggles off his face, leaving a mask of clean skin around his eyes, and he began the descent downwards.

Strange to be walking this way again. He saw the bloody handprint he left when he made his desperate escape, still smeared on the wall. He even saw the damned rock that tripped him on the way out. A knot twisted tight in his gut, and he fought everything in him that begged him to turn around and go back to Rivet City.

_‘No,’_ he thought to himself, _‘I can’t abandon them like Dad did.’_

So when he stood before the large Vault doors, he took a moment to study the worn 101 painted on the metal surface. Home. This was home. It might as well have been. He didn’t belong in the Wastelands, even if he was born there. Home was the cold corridors, the too bright fluorescent lights, the hum of electronics behind metal walls.

The rusted console stood still, the lights still blinking even after all this time. Dirty, calloused hands reached to key in the password on the terminal. Green letters appeared after each tip-tap of the keyboard.

A - M - A - T - A

Click. Click. Click.

Beep!

The large metal doors hissed when pressure released, metal on metal screeched as the locks and rusted mechanics were brought back to life once again. The cold, stagnant air pushed past the doors and blew gently into the rocky hallway.

And there were the old metal rooms, dull signs lit up along the corridors with its peeling paint. This was the Vault 101 he remembered so fondly.

This was _home._

He was home, wasn’t he?  


* * *

  
“He’s not coming home, Hark.”

Lana Danvers was a woman at the end of her rope. Chief Harkness kept guard over the rusted railings of Rivet City, spent every time off patrol to keep watch, just in case 101 made a miraculous return.

“He’s out there, Lana, I know he is,” Harkness never once broke his gaze, focused over the horizon, “He has to be.”

“Harkness, listen to me,” Lana tried to reason with him. She put her hand on his arm, trying to turn him around, “Hark.”

She saw his adam’s apple bob, swallowing a lump in his throat.

“Hark… Listen, I know about the two of you…” she tried, her voice low.

That got him to listen. His too bright eyes turned to focus on her now. As much as he wanted to hide it, Lana knew him for too long to be fooled by his stoic appearance. She caught the briefest flash of fear, but she had to tell him.

“Listen, I know, _I’m sorry…_ but I don’t think he’s coming back, Hark.”

“How do you know?” as even-toned as his voice had been, she sensed the frustration. The fear.

“Because he hasn’t shown up in weeks. Dr. Li and the others aren’t combatants, and Miller might be an alright shot, but you saw the hardware those goons carried,” Harkness looked away, she made him look at her again, “Hark, you know better than to hope against this.”

Chief Harkness didn’t say anything, not for a while.

Lana sighed, finally defeated, “I have to go on patrol, just… just don’t stay out here too long okay? The sun’ll melt your skin right off.”

She turned around, slinging her rifle to her front, but stopped as soon as she heard Harkness ask, once again, “But do you know?”

Maybe this was how he dealt with grief, she thought. Didn’t he lose a wife before? Maybe this was… a bad reminder?

She let him have this one, “I don’t know for sure, Hark, but I also know better than to be optimistic in a time like this.”

When Lana Danvers disappeared into the darkness of Rivet City, she could still see Harkness keeping watch, vigilant as ever.  


* * *

  
Clink. Clank. Clunk.

Jensen’s heavy, mud-caked boots echoed off the empty walls of the entrance, signs of life came from the gentle hum of electronics along the walls, the buzzing of lamps overhead, and flickers of lights from server nodes in caged boxes along the ceiling.

“Hello!” he called out, dark brown eyes peering down the too bright corridors. No one answered, not even a flicker of curious shadows from around the corner.

His heart began to drop into his stomach when he saw the first sign of trouble: blood stains on the wall-- still fresh and red. What happened here?

He wrapped his arms around himself, familiarizing himself once more with the artificial chill of the vaults. “Where is everyone?” he asked aloud under a terrified breath.

Even with trepidation in each step, there was still an air of familiarity. This wasn’t some abandoned building, long picked clean by scavengers and raiders. There were no monsters lurking beneath the shadows, no nasty traps or surprises waiting for him to make the wrong move. Here in Vault 101, he remembered every nook and cranny as though he never left. 

He let his fingertips trace the surface of the walls, feeling every bump and scratch as he walked down the corridors. He remembered meeting Jonas here once, in tears, telling him about the injustice he had faced when, at sixteen, he was caught kneeling before Freddie Gomez in the privacy of a spare supply closet. Heat pricked along his cheekbones, he remembered how angry he had been when the Overseer pulled both boys and their fathers into his office, reprimanding and shaming them both for their actions. 

He remembered running down these corridors as a child, chasing Amata in some wild game of tag, or was it cops and robbers? Before Stanley found them and told them they shouldn’t be playing so close to the entrance.

_Wait._

He heard footsteps mirroring his own just then, far away at first. And then, the pace ramped up to a run.

Jensen fled, acting on instincts.

“Stop!” The voice of a security personnel bounced off the walls, ringing in his ears, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

It had been learned reflex, the way he spun around and held his arms straight up over his head. Down on his knees he went, he kept his head low, yelling in terrified desperation, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! I’m friendly! Please don’t shoot!”

“I-I don’t know who you are!”

Wait, that voice. He knew that voice.

“How did you even get in here? Who are you? Answer me!”

Jensen looked up, big dark eyes blinking at the sight before him.

“Hold… Hold on…”

Jensen breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled, “Officer Gomez? Is… is that you?”

The officer pulled his helmet off, his eyes wide with surprise, “Oh my god, it’s… it’s you!” He shook the shock off his face, “P-Put your arms down, good gravy, I’m not going to shoot, it’s okay.” He holstered his pistol as quickly as he had said those words.

“Th-Thanks, sorry, it’s… it’s just, you know, you learn stuff out there.”

“I hardly recognized you from all the dirt! And your hair, it-it’s gotten so long! Jensen, holy moly! How… How did you get in? Why are you here?”

“Amata sent a transmission to my Pip-Boy. We uh,” Jensen looked down, as if embarrassed to admit, “We used to send each other messages that way back then, so she must’ve… must’ve remembered.”

Officer Gomez swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded, eyes downcast, trying to avoid the awkward conversation, “She missed you a whole lot after you and your dad left.”

Jensen hadn’t meant to, but he clenched his fist at the mention of his father.

Gomez caught on, “...You did find your dad, right?”

How could anyone answer such a question? After everything that happened? After everything he had learned? But Jensen tried, “I found him, alright.”

“And…?”

“He… didn’t make it.”

Gomez’s shoulders drooped and his stance softened, hand over his heart, “Oh, Jensen…”

“It’s… it’s okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” Officer Gomez moved in closer to the boy, holding a hand out for him to take, “Crap… I’m so, so sorry.”

Jensen gave a tight-lipped smile, “Nothing to be sorry for, nothing you did wrong. You helped me, after all.” He took the officer’s hand and was pulled up with one firm jerk upwards.

“I’m sorry you had to come back and see all this,” Officer Gomez began brushing off the dust on Jensen’s suit, a futile effort if anything, “I… Dangit, did Amata say anything?”

“Just that… just that things have gotten tense here,” he wasn’t sure what was safe to say, Gomez was still a part of the security personnel, he still answered to the person responsible for killing Jonas, “She said to come help right away.”

“And you came all this way?”

Jensen smiled, “I was in the area.”  


* * *

  
The directions from Officer Gomez couldn’t have been clearer, the rebels had holed up near the clinic and some of the nearby apartments. Whatever familiarity Jensen had since washed away at how the rebels had rearranged this wing of the vault. Officer Gomez talked about how bad it had all gone down, but nothing prepared Jensen for what he saw with his own eyes. 

Lockers and metal tables were turned over as makeshift cover, while old bed linens and tablecloths were turned into walls and coverings. He noticed brown splotches of old blood on the floor, abandoned first aid kits that were picked apart in the haste of battle.

Strange to look at it that way, but it reminded him of the wasteland settlements dotted outside. How old tarp and cloth were used as curtains and privacy walls, battle damage from fights stayed on every structure surface.

But there were still rebels lurking in this wing of the vault, and ones that were ready for a fight. He recalled seeing one of them, a Tunnel Snake, provoking an elderly security officer, brandishing a knife with little regard for his consequences.

“Never bring a knife to a gunfight,” was an old wasteland truism, and one he found repeating when he witnessed the sight.

Still, he pressed on, remaining on high alert.

His boots seemed to thunder with every step, no matter how careful he had been. There were little hints of sound down the corridors-- the clinking of pins and metal falling, the sound of sneakers squealing as someone turned a corner. Every noise was an invitation to explore further and further…

“Take another move and I’ll skin that head clean off.”

Jensen stayed statue-still, hands up by his head as he drew slow, quiet breaths. 

“Who are you? Who sent you?”

“Hey, Butch,” Jensen’s voice was calm and collected, “What’s up?” He turned around and gave him a smile.

He heard the clattering of metal on metal as Butch dropped his switchblade to the floor in shock. Then his eyebrows furrowed down, angry. His lips curled into a snarl, “It takes some real balls coming back here after everything you and your dad screwed up.”

“Whoa, hold on…” Jensen turned around, his hands still up.

Butch closed the distance between them, his fists curling the collar of Jensen’s own vault suit in his hands. He could feel his hot breath on his skin, but Jensen stayed still, and held his ground. He wasn’t the lanky bookworm that cowered under Butch’s taunts and threats anymore. 

“What the fuck are you doing back here, nosebleed?” But Butch wouldn’t suffer insolence, not even from someone who went through the wastelands and made it back in one piece.

“I got an emergency transmission.”

Butch’s eyes squinted with disbelief, the grip on his suit tightened, “Oh yeah?”

“You can ask Amata herself, you know, if you can stop yourself long enough from harassing her.”

“You’re asking for a beating, Miller,” Butch raised a fist, ready to rumble.

“Miller?” a woman’s voice stopped the altercation from going any further, and the boys turned to face her.

“Amata?” Jensen’s eyes grew wide.

Then, excited chatter from the other rebels bubbled forth as they emerged from the silence, breathing life into the vault halls again.

“Holy shit? Miller’s alive?”

Some peered out from windows.

“I thought he died!”

Some humorously took cover in emptied lockers.

“Miller? Like the doc’s kid?”

Others yet emerged from locked, reinforced doors.

All were faces Jensen had never thought to see again, like some old fond dream. As they emerged from their hiding spots, Jensen smiled at each one as they made themselves known under the bright fluorescent lights.

But he couldn’t stop smiling at the sight of Amata.

“Jensen?”

“Amata!”

With Butch distracted, Jensen slipped out of his grasp, and brought Amata into an impossibly tight hug.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m here, I got your message,” he soothed gently as she hung from his neck, crying into his filthy jumpsuit, sobbing and heaving.

“I didn’t think you were alive,” she cried, burrowing her face deeper into his neck, “Oh my god, I didn’t think you were alive!”

“It’s good to be home,” he said, the smile never leaving his face.


	4. Chapter Three

It was strange to be back in his old apartment again.

It had been left in tact, mostly. A miracle considering the fights that had broken out since he had to escape. The doors slid open with a quiet hiss, and the low hum of the air conditioning unit jolted him back to happier memories.

Easier memories.

Amata padded quietly behind him, staring into the room, trying to follow his gaze.

“I think everyone was afraid to touch it,” she said, hoping to start some sort of conversation, “The roaches kept away from it, I don’t know if it was superstition or…”

“Pellets.”

“What?”

Jensen straightened his back, realizing how sore it had been as he slung his pack over his arms and on the floor. He leaned his bag against the wall of the living room and turned to Amata, “Pellets. Jonas made these little anti-roach pellets, apparently the smell of it makes ‘em crazy or something.”

“...Jonas made that and didn’t tell us?”

Jensen shrugged, “It was an experiment still, I don’t think he ever got enough data to prove it,” he kicked the floor absentmindedly, “Ah, Jonas.”

“I’m sorry about what happened, you know, about… Jonas.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t apologize,” he placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, “It’s… look what happened, happened. There’s nothing I can do to change it, much as I want to,” he tried to offer her a smile, but she still frowned.

“I wish you were here on better terms.”

“I wish I left on better terms,” Jensen didn’t mean to sound bitter, “I’m sorry, just… ever since leaving and learning about everything, it’s… been a lot to process.”

Jensen began to take careful steps into his old apartment, still untouched ever since that fateful day where he escaped desperately to the surface. The pile of laundry was still in the corner, he remembered how the night before he promised his dad he would get them done.

His throat grew tight, and his eyes went hot with the threat of tears.

“Jensen?”

He didn’t realize the tears were streaming down his cheeks, leaving clean marks on his skin as they dragged the dirt with them.

“I’m sorry, this… this is a lot for me.”

Amata nodded. He was sure she didn’t understand, but she always tried to sympathize with him, no one else really did, growing up.

“I’m sorry, you asked me to help with something and I’m just here crying,” Jensen wiped the tears away hastily, “Did you want to talk about why you called me?”

She looked around, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Officer Gomez gave me the rundown… but I think he was trying to spare me from the truth.”

She smiled at that, “He’s a good man, I always liked him.”

“Me too.”

Amata looked to him, “Listen, I know you came a long way to come back for us,” she punched a few buttons on a wall panel, and the front door opened, “Why don’t you rest up and get changed? We can talk about it later when things quiet down.”

“You sure?” Jensen’s eyes darted around the apartment, “Aren’t things quiet now?”

“Guards are on their patrol now, and they’ll find any excuse to bother us if we step out of this wing. Get cleaned up, you look like you need it.” She stepped over the threshold, “Meet me in your dad’s old clinic when you’re ready, we’ll talk then, okay?”

Amata gave a small wave before the doors closed, and her footsteps soon disappeared down the long hallways outside. He was all by himself and his thoughts, then. His eyes observed his surroundings, examining the furniture, the small messes that were left behind. 

His eyes trailed from the living room to the small kitchen and dining area. Then to the bedroom and finally, the bathroom.

God above and below the thought of a shower was too tempting to pass up. He learned to make do with what Nova called a ‘whore’s bath’, “Just get the important bits, hon’, noone’ll pay any mind if you missed behind the ear… unless you’re into that,” he recalled her telling him. Water was scarce, clean water especially. He almost felt angry at how wasteful the vaults were now that he thought about it.

He was home, and he didn’t like it one bit.

* * *

  
Over the Potomac, The Ink Spots still sang their songs hundreds of years later. Melodies turned into echoes, overlaid by the water lapping against the ship that housed Rivet City. 

_Who wouldn’t love you, who wouldn’t care?  
You’re so enchanting, people must stare..._

Lana Danvers hummed along as she leaned against the metal frame of the door out towards the flight deck, and observed as the ever stoic, ever stubborn Chief Andrew Harkness stood guard at the same damned spot. _8 hours, 23 minutes and 42 seconds._

“I can hear you,” Harkness said, his voice so clear even over the song.

“Wasn’t trying to sneak up on you, chief,” she said, walking over to him, _2 meters away_ , “The boys are finishing patrols in about an hour.”

“They got reports ready?”

“Come on, Hark.”

“Come on what? They gotta file reports, I don’t care if it’s a slow day.”

Lana shook her head, he was doing this on purpose, wasn’t he? “Hark… are you okay?”

His mind tried to process what she had meant by that. The synth side read it as a simple query: _All systems operational. Vital readings: normal. ‘Are you okay?’ Did you mean: ‘Are you uncomfortable?’_

Uncomfortable.

He frowned terribly, trying to think of an answer, and filed the question away in his mind. But all he could manage was a sigh, “What do you want me to say, Danvers?”

“I dunno, chief, we’re friends aren’t we? How are you holding up about… y’know, Miller?”

One controlled breath, then another. _18 days, 3 hours, 56 minutes and 45 seconds since Jensen Miller was last seen. Probability of surviving is slim, no results available from news sources regarding the status of the Lone Wanderer._

“Well,” he tried, “I wasn’t thinkin’ of Miller… up until you showed up.”

“Oh, fuck,” Lana looked down. Embarrassed? “Oh, fuck, sorry… I didn’t… ah, shit, I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” she turned to match his gaze, her eyes fixed on the way the lights from faraway settlements seemed to glitter off the water’s surface, “You lost someone you cared about-- again-- that can’t be easy.”

Again? _Memory034A // source:MemChip0x000078_

_Blue eyes (R:119, G:154, B:209), brown hair, 5’7” Caucasian female. First name: Dorothy Anne, Surname: NAME NOT FOUND --ERROR-- Notes: Wife. Left me. Why?_

Information scrolled before his vision, files and memories and binaries firing off in flashes like an overlay of film. _Brown eyes (R:56, G:50, B:33), brown hair, 6’0” Mixed male. First name: Jensen Adam, Surname: Miller. Notes: Insufferable egghead. Likes Nuka-Cola._

“Hark?”

“Sorry, I’m just… tired.”

“Hark, you don’t have to hide it if you’re sad, you know. You’re not a robot.”

God, he wanted to laugh at that. ‘Not a robot’, if only she knew. Miller risked his life to protect him, to let him keep the freedom he wanted so desperately. He stopped the Institute, sent them on their way back North, and no one in the city knew who he really truly was, no one had to. ‘A secret between friends,’ Harkness called it. Then Jensen told him he was more than what he was made to be, more than some android from the Commonwealth, “You’re human to me.”

His jaw tensed, his grip tightened on the railings, knuckles turning white. _Stress-levels increasing_. His artificial heart began to beat hard against his chest. Or at least, it felt that way to him. His hardware checks this morning showed everything was running optimally.

_Warning: Stress-levels critical._

Systems whirred impossibly within him, trying to make sense of the flurry of emotions he felt that had come on so suddenly. Error message after error message flashed in his subconscious, and yet all he could think about was the last time he saw Miller.

_Replay: [ Miller gets ready, before he kisses me goodbye. Tells me to be ‘good’, and that he would be back soon. Soon enough that I wouldn’t miss him. ]_

Harkness felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and he had to wonder then if it had been the human side of him that caused him to hide his face in shame. _Bullshit. All of this is bullshit._

Lana was ever the stalwart companion, and pulled an arm around Harkness’s torso and hugged him.

“I miss him…” his voice was quiet, but there was no hiding the impact behind his words.

“I know,” she tried, “Do you want me to take over your shift tonight?”

“No… just… stay here with me for a minute,” and then, an attempt at humor, “That’s an order.”

“Sure, Hark, as long as you need, okay?”

* * *

  
He could see it clear as day. As though he was back in time all those years ago. Like everything that had happened in the past year was just one long terrible dream.

Dad sat at the dining table, drinking his morning coffee, reading over the reports Jonas had slipped to him the night before, “That Jonas,” Dad would say, “Always working so late.”

Jensen hardly paid any attention, he had his nose squarely in the colorful pages of _Grognak the Barbarian_. He never meant to stare too long on a page; the stories were fun, but they weren’t smart or deep. Oh, but the most compelling feature of all was the way the artist lovingly rendered every muscle on Grognak’s torso that--

“Jensen?” His father called him out of his daydream, “Jensen, did you hear a word I said?”

“Sorry, Dad,” he dog-eared the page, fighting to keep the flush off his face, “Sorry, what did you want?”

“Jonas is going to drop by later when you’re done with classes with some important research.”

“Freddie and I were going to hang out after, though,” a quiet protest as he pulled his socks over his feet.

“Well, just make sure you’re here to keep the research in my room, and then you can go hang out all you want,” he idly eyed Jensen tying the laces of his boots, “Just… please make sure you get the research, before Andy comes by with the broom again. You remember what happened last time, don’t you?”

There was no use fighting the exasperation in Dad’s voice, so all Jensen could offer was an obedient, “Sure.”

He remembered being caught that day with Freddie Gomez. Hands on his thighs as they tried to navigate this strange new emotion between them. “Do you trust me?” he remembered Freddie saying, “‘Cause I trust you.”

God, how long was he going to dwell on that?

Jensen Miller stood up from where he was seated on the couch, and began to peel off the armored padding Moira Brown had so lovingly affixed for him. He pushed the blue-and-gold jumpsuit from his shoulders, revealing a worn white t-shirt underneath, discolored from his travels across the Capital Wastelands. 

It felt like he was stepping back into a moment in time when he entered the bathroom of that small apartment he had grown up in. He could’ve sworn he heard his dad getting food heated up in the kitchen, “Hurry up or you’ll be late for classes, Jensen!” he’d call, quickly plating ready-made pancakes and premixed coffee into cups.

Jensen almost answered back, “Five more minutes, Dad, promise!” He felt his throat tighten at the realization.

 _‘Dad’s gone, dummy,’_ he thought, kicking off the last of his clothes. The chilly vault air raised goosebumps on his skin, and he quickly danced over to the stall. Pulling the screen closed, muscle memory led his hands to the faucet. Three squeaky turns later, and hot water sprinkled out of the shower head.

He almost dropped down from exhaustion right then and there. The heat against sore, tense muscles felt like heaven. Even the still-healing wounds along his torso felt less angry and painful. He could feel every bit of stress melt away from his pores, and he felt more human just standing there, letting the water wash over him.

When was the last time he enjoyed hot water in the wastelands? Megaton offered little luxury, and he loathed to step into Tenpenny Towers.

 _Ah._ He remembered now. It had been with Harkness, hadn’t it?

He remembered Chief Harkness asking sheepishly if he could borrow his shower-- he wanted to see what the big fuss was with hot water, he made do with tepid all this while. He remembered trying not to steal too many glances at the reflection in the mirror-- the sculpted back, the strong arms. Damn the steam for obscuring the rest.

Jensen remembered being pulled under that stream of water, kissing him. That was the first night they were intimate together. The feeling of hot skin against the cold air, the way his eyes seemed to glow with synthetic light in the dark.

He pushed the thought from out of his mind. No use thinking about that now. As much as he missed Harkness, he needed to help the Vault. They needed him.

They needed him, right?

* * *

  
For all the headaches the good doctor had given him, Alphonse Almodovar could only repeat an oft-quoted line in his mind: “The numbers never lie, Overseer.”

And indeed, before him, upon pages and pages of printouts were numbers and probabilities plain as the ink on the paper. No matter what variable he changed, what alternatives he tried to take, drastic or otherwise, the numbers never lied.

Vault 101 was dying.

There wasn’t enough of the population left for a viable genetic pool. Hell, there weren’t enough people to keep the vault running for day-to-day operations, let alone pioneering new generations. Stanley was losing a battle to his headaches, and the few repairmen left in the maintenance department had either fallen to the radroaches from James’s escape… or had joined ranks with Amata’s group of rebels.

He sighed, pushing himself away from the desk.

“What am I going to do?” his eyes fell on framed pictures of Amata. Every detail of her life was carefully recorded and written down. Amata as a baby, cradled carefully in her mother’s arms. His daughter at her own tenth birthday party. At her prom with that insufferable Miller boy. 

What had gone wrong? A hand reached out and traced the edge of a framed photo of her graduation.

“Sir,” a security officer stepped into the office and Alphonse withdrew his hand as though he touched a hot surface, “Sir, we have news.”

The Overseer only offered a sidelong glance.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, sir, but the, ah, glitch in the entrance system earlier… wasn’t a glitch.”

Alphonse saw red.

“What do you mean it _wasn’t_ a glitch?” Now his full attention was on the guard, who seemed to shrink under the Overseer’s gaze, “Are you telling me the door actually opened? _More_ people escaped?”

“W-Well, not exactly, sir.”

Oh, this he had to hear.

“No one escaped. But we looked at the security tapes and uh… the boys thought you might want to take a look at it yourself,” from his pocket, the officer produced a holotape, marked with the current date and time.

Alphonse prepared for the worst, but certainly not for what had played on the large screen before him. Through grainy, monotone footage, he watched as the doors rolled open, the lights of the alarms circling through the entryway, bright sunlight flooded the room for all but a moment.

And when the cameras had readjusted back to the vault’s superficial lighting, there stood a figure.

“Someone from the outside?” The Overseer was on the edge of his seat, peering closer at the screen.

“Hang on a sec,” the officer typed a command into the terminal, and sure enough, the view of the cameras changed.

Only one name slipped from the Overseer’s mouth, recognition turned to vitriol, “Miller.” But that could only mean one thing. If Miller was back…

His eyes fell back onto those framed pictures of Amata once more.

Well, so much for loyalty.

* * *

  
Butch stared into the mirror he had hung on the clinic wall, the small shears he had in his hands clipped away at stray strands that dared to break away from its gel hold. “Easy, easy,” he told himself under his breath as he carefully eased the blades to the perfect angle.

Then, the crackling of the vault PA system coming to life. Followed by a very loud, very sudden, _“I love those deeeear heaaaarts~ and geeeentle people~”_

Butch yelped, cutting too hard and too blunt and too fast. He watched in fear as a large lock of his hair floated gently onto the clinic floor, and his chest threatened to break out of his chest from how hard it was beating.

“Jesus fucking fuck,” he cussed, wild blue eyes looking around, “What’s going on?”

Amata poked her head from out of the old doctor’s office, her hands carrying plates for dinner, “Butch, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do nothin’! Th-The radio just came on!”

Amata looked around, placed the plates down and popped open the circuit box on the wall, flipping switches to no avail. But just as quickly as the music came on, it fizzled away to silence.

“Sorry!”

Butch’s expression immediately soured, “Miller…”

“Sorry, sorry! I was trying to get radio signals from further away, and I think I might’ve crossed some wires somewhere and--”

“My hair! Miller, you ruined my hair!”

Jensen blinked at Butch, taking in the lopsided cut, and gave a big, bright grin, “Aw hey, it looks good on you DeLoria.”

Butch pulled his sheers from off the floor and quickly went back to work resculpting his hair, “Fuck you, Miller. Do you know how long it took to grow this out?”

Jensen snickered, “You mean you weren’t born with that beautiful head of hair from the get-go?”

“When the hell you’d get such a smart mouth, huh?” He turned to face the mirror again, carefully repairing what he could salvage.

The commotion drew out the others, Freddie and Susie and even Old Lady Palmer, faces he remembered from a youth he was ready to forget. Jensen smiled at them all, but something didn’t seem right.

“Hey uh,” he looked to Butch, “Where’s Paulie?”

The silence that fell on the room landed like a bag of bricks.

“Why don’t we sit down? We can talk over dinner,” Amata tried. It would be a long night for everyone…


	5. Chapter Four

  


  
The day to day of Rivet City had gone on as though the world hadn’t lost one good man. Flak and Shrapnel still danced around their little romance. As much as they tried to hide it, it was obvious to everyone on the boat. Bannon and Seagrave still glared daggers at one another as they walked past each other in the marketplace. Still, nothing was amiss, nothing was out of the ordinary. Everyone on the ship had been present and accounted for, everyone was where they should all be.

Everyone, except one person.

“Did you hear about that Miller kid?”

“Shame about what happened to him.”

“Yeah, he was a good kid, helped me loads.”

“He wasn’t a fighter, didn’t stand a chance against those Enclave goons.”

“Maybe if he had a bigger gun?”

_Bullshit._

Neither of them talked about or showed their relationship to the public. Most everyone had just assumed they were good friends. Harkness only visited at night, hours when Rivet City fell fast asleep, when Jensen stayed up tinkering on an old terminal, and when he was ending his shift. It was never really a secret, it had simply been the way things fell into place. 

Most of Rivet City had been fooled. Well… most everyone, except Lana Danvers.

Loud creaking could be heard all through that night, rusted metal frames settling into itself from the cool air. A gentle, reassuring ambience found nowhere else but the tub he swore to protect. He heard footsteps exactly 10 meters behind him, confident strides and with such sure footing, it could have only been one person.

“Sneaking up on me again, Danvers?” Harkness let the grip on his rifle relax.

“Jesus, you do that to everyone, Chief?” Lana stood before him, her own rifle put away as she casually twirled a ring of keys in her hand, “How’re you holding up?”

No definition he searched could explain the way he had been feeling. _Empty_ barely covered it. But, he also learned that being less specific made him sound less like a machine, and more like a human. Like a man. He sighed then.

“I don’t know,” it was as honest as he could be.

Lana seemed to understand, her eyes darting away as she nodded her head, “I hear ya, it’s never easy.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t know why he felt so frustrated, or why he felt the way he did. Every logical process in his system protested these emotions, none of it was productive, nor could they solve the problem of bringing Miller back to life.

Yet he still felt the insatiable sensation to run out and search for him. Probability of survival none. Assume death.

“Hey, Chief?” Lana spoke up.

Harkness looked at her, eyes focusing on what she held in her hand.

“Listen, I know… this is probably really tactless, but uh,” she folded the ring of keys into her hands and held it out for him, “Listen, if Miller’s _gone_ , then you’ve got the job to make sure his stuff is, you know, taken care of.”

He wanted to kick himself for the shaky breath that escaped past his lips. But nevertheless, he took the keys from Lana. He swallowed, hard. 

“I know, I’m sorry, Chief.”

“Don’t be sorry,” why did his voice crack? There’s no logical reason for him to feel this way. He knows what possibly happened. He knows what the outcome could possibly be. Why grieve? Why be upset? He knew this was going to happen sooner or later. Why did he feel this way? “I’ll… go take a look at it when I’ve got the time.”

“Listen, Miller’s a good sort,” she smiled, nudging him gently, “No one’s gonna look at you funny for missing him.”

“You don’t understand…”

“Hey,” she held her hands up defensively, “I don’t have to, I know you two had something going on, and it’s none of my business.”

All the more reason why he liked Lana, he supposed.

“But Chief? You’re allowed to feel things. You don’t have to be strong for us, especially when you need to be sad. We get it. And if those clowns don’t? I’ll make sure they will.”

“...Thanks, Lana.”

“Don’t mention it, Chief,” as she passed him to walk back to the guard quarters, she looked to him, “And holler if you need anything okay?” She flashed him a bright, reassuring smile…

...And suddenly, things didn’t seem so hopeless. Keys in hand, Harkness turned around the narrow corridors, and climbed up the stairwell to the Upper Deck.  


* * *

  
The laughter carried through the wings of Vault 101 like a ghost from the past. If Jensen focused a little less, he could pretend that he was on the way to class. The Tunnel Snakes laughing at the corner like the hooligans they were. Susie Mack and her own gaggle of girls would gossip idly in the corner as they sipped on takeaway milkshakes.

He wished Dad hadn’t just up and left. A whole life, a whole community, ruined. Yet, as much as he wanted to hold onto that anger, it was difficult to revel in it. He could find some measure of peace by finally being accepted by his fellow residents. He was proud, for one, seeing Amata not as the punching bag from the others, but as a reliable leader with a noble heart.

As he rounded the corner from out of his apartment and towards the clinic, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight before him. Everyone sitting down and enjoying a meal together. Amata passed around plates of reheated food-- certainly less luxurious than what they learned of pre-War America, but certainly for more nutritional than what was available on the wasteland surface. Everyone sat beside one another, some on chairs, others on beds, some even enjoyed their meals cross-legged on the floor.

When he walked into the clinic, he was met with a cheer from the rebels.

“Hey, Miller’s here!”

“Well if it ain’t Miller himself,” Butch pushed himself off the wall he leaned on, “Glad to see you remembered how to find your way around here, nosebleed.”

“Jensen, hey! You’re just in time!” Amata smiled wide.

“Jenny! You made it!” Freddie Gomez clapped him on the back.

“Hey, so we got beans, rice, uhh… some of that steak meat thing that Stanley liked a whole lot,” Freddie pointed to each dish, heated through the hot plates lined up beside each other, “I think this one was creamed corn.”

“Yeah, till you dumped a whole thing of salt in there,” Wally complained, “Thanks, Freak.”

“Don’t mind him,” Amata said quietly, plating Jensen’s own helping of dinner and passed it to open, eager hands, “We’re happy to have you back, Jensen.”

It felt too familiar, but altogether alien. He remembered hearing the jokes and stories from a distance, always used to keeping to himself. But to be the center of it?

He relished in it.

“So what’s it like up there?” Freddie Gomez asked with stars in his eyes, “Is it like… all desert?”

“No, there’s… well there’s some trees, but it’s nothing like what we saw in the books, or what they grow in the bio-lab,” Jensen explained through a mouthful of food, swallowing greedily, “It’s all burnt and shrivelled, but there’s lots of grass though!”

“Hey, slow down man, before you eat the whole damned plate,” Butch nudged him with a foot.

“So…” another hasty gulp, “So what happened? How’d things get so bad?”

Everyone’s eyes looked away from Jensen, the tension so palpable that conversations seemed to disappear entirely.

“We don’t know,” Amata admitted with a sigh, “It’s… I don’t know how to explain it?” She looked around to the remaining Tunnel Snakes, “When Paul died… I don’t know, the Overseer started to go down in a spiral? He just shut everyone off, cracked down on rules? I know my dad was tough sometimes, but this? I don’t know who that man is.”

“Your daddy went nutso, that’s what happened.”

Jensen caught the way Amata glared daggers at Butch for all but a moment, before her gaze softened as she tried to explain herself, “Something changed with my dad.”

“What’d he do?”

“He snapped,” the normally sweet, quiet voice of Old Lady Palmer seemed to shout over the others, now with renewed vigor, “The vault’s been opened before long ago, I don’t know why anyone pretends it never had.”

“I know,” Jensen smiled, and all eyes fell on him, “When I made the escape I… I downloaded everything off the Overseer’s computer before I left.”

“You what?” Amata narrowed her eyes at him.

“I thought my dad found something out from the Overseer, something that got him in trouble, that’s why he had to leave all of a sudden--”

“No surprise, Alphonse has so many rules and secrets, the man’s a walking puzzle…” Old Lady Palmer quickly added, “Ah, no offense, dearie.” 

“None taken,” though it was plain to see offense had very much been taken by young Amata.

“Anyway,” Jensen continued, “I thought it might explain why he left, I didn’t think I’d be coming back here, after all.

“I thought he left because he found out the Vault could be opened, that’s… that’s like blasphemy, right? Like the Vault could be open, everything was a lie? No way! So I tracked him down, I wanted answers… when I visited a few towns, they all knew where I came from, ‘cause there were others who left.”

Amata drew in a sharp breath, anxious, “What?”

“Yeah… apparently a bunch of people made a break for it.”

Her brows furrowed, the confusion plain as day on her face, “But… if they escaped, why didn’t my father go after them like he did with your dad?”

“I dunno… maybe because he learned that the vault won’t last much longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look around you,” Jensen gestured to the room with a big sweep of his now toned arms, “How many people are left? Even if folks didn’t escape, really, how many more generations are we gonna last?”

“Then we have to open the vault!” Amata’s purpose was clear in how determined her tone was, “We can’t doom ourselves like this! He has to be able to see this!”

“I know, but… Amata, do you really know what you’re asking? I mean, the wastelands are dangerous.”

Butch snickered, “You survived. How hard can it be?” That earned him an approving chuckle from the remaining Tunnel Snakes.

“Pretty hard,” Jensen’s tone was serious and grim as ever, and that silenced the jokes as quickly as they had come, “There’s… Man, I think I nearly died by the time I got the gumption to head to the next town to find my dad.”

Everyone gave him a look that urged him to continue.

“There are others out there! Towns, cities! Working cities with merchants and security officers and stuff, but… outside of that it’s all dangerous… you have mutated creatures that’ll try to kill you or give you really awful diseases.”

“So… what? We just open the vault and wait for these things to get us?”

“There’s a town nearby here, Megaton! There’s a bunch of folks that know about us there, they’d be willing to help!” And then, an idea, “I wrote a survival book with someone from there! Maybe it’d help you guys?”

“You wrote a book,” Butch deadpanned, “You helped write a book about survival to a bunch of people who’ve been surviving up there longer than you have?”

“...Yeah?”

“Jesus, Miller.”

“Hey man, it’s really tough going up there, the only reason why I made it was because I had help,” he focused back to Amata, “Listen, if we’re going to convince your dad, it’s not just about seeing the big world up there… you’ll need measures to keep the vault safe, for a start.”

“I dunno,” Amata stifled a quiet laugh, “I think if my dad heard that your dad was up there still he’d be even more determined to bury us down here.”

And just like that, the smile dimmed from Jensen, “ I don’t…” a strained smile, “He wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

Old Lady Palmer held her hand over her heart, Amata gasped, “Oh no…”

“Yeah he uh…” a sad smile as he looked down, hiding the threat of oncoming tears, “He died trying to save me and a bunch of scientists from an attack.”

“Oh my god…”

Even Butch looked away.

“Listen, it’s… it’s fine. It’s okay. It’s… over and done with. I’ll be fine.” He managed a strong smile for everyone in the room, “I said I’d help, not bum everyone out.”

“Yeah, but he was your dad,” Amata tried.

“I’ll… I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Aw, fuck this!” Butch looped his arms around Jensen’s neck, “Miller’s back, and he’s gonna help us get that big ol’ door open!”

Just like that, the mood shifted, rebels determined to live in the moment and revel in what small freedoms they had with one another.

And through the laughter, the conversations, the barely reheated canned beans, Freddie and Jensen’s eyes met from across the room. Neither of them could help the smile that crept across their lips.

_‘Uh-oh.’_   


* * *

  
“Here you go,” Vera Weatherly gestured to the large metal door, the numbers ‘101’ lovingly affixed to its front, “It’s a shame what happened to him, I really liked Jensen.” 

Chief Harkness only gave her a sidelong glance, trying his damnedest not to show any more emotion. He had to be the hard-nosed, no-nonsense security chief, he’s here to do his job. Still, he offered, “Wasteland doesn’t care how good a person you are.”

“I guess that’s true,” she sighed, wistful and dreamy, “I’m glad he brought Bryan back to me.”

Harkness’s hand rested over the handle of the door, “How’s the kid doing?”

“He’s… he’s good,” Vera folded her hands daintily behind her back, “I think he’s still getting used to the ship, still gets turned around on the decks when he’s not paying attention.”

“He likes it here?”

Vera smiled, “Yeah, I don’t think he had anywhere else to go, really. I know his dad tried hard but…” a shrug, “I can’t imagine anywhere else to raise a family out here.”

Harkness recalled Miller telling him as much. How his father clawed his way into the vault for the sake of safety. Crazy that he made it in, crazier that he’d leave.

_Warning: Stress levels rising._

“Does he know about Miller?”

“I haven’t told him yet,” Vera looked down the hall, towards the lobby of her hotel, “Truthfully? I don’t think anyone really believes he’s gone.”

Harkness frowned then. Probability of surviving: Low. Assume death. “Yeah, well… it happens to everyone, don’t it?”

She could only nod, “I guess,” then, she perked up, making sure her eyes locked onto his, “Well, if you need anything, let me know. I have a safe in the lobby if you need to keep the valuable stuff,” and then she turned to look up at him through her lashes, a clever smirk tugging the corner of her lips, “You know where to find me.”

Harkness remained unimpressed, but he offered a kind smile to her in return, “Helpful as always, Miss Weatherly.”

“Please, you know you can call me, Vera,” she closed the gap between them, he could smell the floral perfume she wore, “Hark.”

He nodded, “Right. I’ll just be here then. Have a good evening,” a pause, hesitant, “Vera.”

There was no hiding that pleased giggle as she turned around down the hall and back to her lobby. She wasn’t the first woman to shower him with attention like that. His former self found the flirtations amusing, but now all he could see were numbers and data and figures. She was another figure to protect on the ship, another citizen he cared for.

But he still had a job to do.

Steeling himself, he jammed the keys into the lock, and turned the large wheel leading into Jensen Miller’s room. At once, his senses were overwhelmed with the Lone Wanderer’s presence. He could smell the soap he had used, standard issue, Vault-Tec brand. His spare clothes and jumpsuit hung haphazardly out of the tiny wooden dresser, and his bed was forever a mess. 

The desk was the main attraction; two terminals sat beside each other, powered off. Miller knew he would be gone for a while. Before them, old dirty mugs of coffee and hot chocolate seemed to stack up into an impossible mountain. Chipboards and modules were strewn, tools scattered with small screws and wires collected in a small, unused ashtray.

Chaotic, messy. No discipline whatsoever. Did the vaults not teach him how to clean up after himself?

Harkness could already feel his throat tightening. He quickly closed-- and locked-- the door behind him, holding on to the small moment of privacy this damned ship would give him.

Maybe he would even have time to grieve. That’s what humans did, didn’t they? They grieved. They mourned.

Where would he even begin with Miller’s room? How could anyone figure out where to start in this mess?

He felt a laugh creep up his out and out his lips. Just like Miller to put the world back together but forget to clean his room. It had been some time since Jensen had left, _19 days, 0 hours and 13 minutes to be exact_ , and yet… it felt as though this could have been another one of their late night meetings. 

God, it was ridiculous.

He could picture it as though nothing had changed: Jensen would peek out from around the bathroom, curls dripping wet, “You’re here!” he’d say, barely hiding the excitement in his voice, “How was the shift?”

Like they had been some damned married couple from the old holotapes Abraham would loan out for Friday nights. The husband coming back from work, while the wife would peek around the kitchen, hiding some improbable and hilarious disaster, “How was work, honey?” 

Stupid. Utterly stupid. And yet Harkness wouldn’t trade it for the world. They’d have their late night dinners together, talking about their day. ‘Lurk cakes and Nuka Cola for Jensen, while Harkness always had a bowl of noodles and beer. Then, Jensen would go back to his desk, tinkering away, while Harkness would calibrate his rifle once again, or help himself to the hot water in the bathroom.

And later? When things were quiet and they got excited, they’d spend the night under the sheets. Ever since coming to terms with his synth side, Harkness understood why he hated being touched. When he thought he was human, he believed it wasn’t professional. Wasn’t ‘tough’. Men don’t touch. He was the security chief after all, he had a reputation as a tough, masculine man to keep. But as a synth? There was no real need to want such a thing. He was what the Institute designated as a ‘Courser’, there was no need for physical affection when your job was to catch and kill.

Yet he only ever wanted to be close to Miller, to make him feel happy. He had the means to please him, why wouldn’t Harkness make the attempt for the man who saved his life?

_Stress levels: Critical._

Damn it. He hastily wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He took in a sharp breath, and tried to focus on the task at hand. Alright, easiest thing first. His eyes landed on the bed, and he began to pick up the corner of the sheets and blankets. 

It was going to be a long night in Rivet City.  


* * *

  
Old photo albums were stacked on the living room floor of the vault apartment. James Miller standing proudly with his son and his refurbished BB Gun. James Miller and his son at Jensen’s tenth birthday party. James Miller standing proudly as Jensen was named MVP for the vault baseball team. 

James Miller and Catherine Jones, seated on an overlook, the Jefferson Memorial visible across the Potomac River in the background. She was radiant, she was beautiful, she was more than the old photos could ever show.

Jensen knew exactly where that picture had been taken. Dr. Madison Li talked about Rivet City being a science community before the city mushroomed around it, that was why the science lab had taken such a large portion of the ship. Strange to think he now found a home there, when his own parents once called it their own.

The hiss of the apartment door opening shocked Jensen out of his thoughts, large dark eyes searched the room for the intruder. Guards? Butch? A sentient radroach?

“Jenny?”

Only one person called him that.

“Freddie! I’m over here,” he broke out into a wide smile, “How’d you get in?”

Freddie pointed with his thumb, that charming lopsided smile ever present, “You left the door unlocked, dummy.” He looked at the photos on the floor and Jensen seated with them, “What’s going on here?”

“Just going through some old stuff, didn’t exactly have time to pick up the sentimentals on the way out,” Jensen patted the spot beside him.

“Yeah, I… I wish I coulda helped,” Freddie took the invitation and brought his knees up to his chest, “But the pills your dad had me on kinda… they knocked me out.”

Jensen’s bright smile dimmed at the mention of his father.

Freddie reached out, his hand instinctively landing on Jensen’s shoulder for reassurance, “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” his voice was soft, affectionate, “I’m sorry about what happened to him.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s okay.”

“C’mon, it’s not,” Freddie scooted closer to Jensen, “You and your old man were close. I know you really liked the internship at the clinic.”

Jensen smiled, “What was it you said? It was so I could give you… happy pills?”

“Happy pills, yeah,” Freddie smiled, “Stupid way of putting it, they just put me right to bed sometimes.”

“Like you’d say no to a good nap.”

“Hey now, I’m a man of pleasure!”

Too easy, too familiar, Jensen and Freddie knew what was going to happen next. And yet neither of them wanted to stop.

“Listen, things… things are gonna change if we can get Amata in charge,” Freddie’s tone shifted to a more serious one, “We don’t have to hide anymore.”

Jensen’s heart beat wildly against his chest, “That’s assuming I’ll stay.”

“You don’t want to stay, Jenny?”

“There’s a whole world out there.”

“We can explore it together.”

It was gradual, so much so that neither of them noticed how much closer they have gotten, “I dunno, Freddie, it’s… it’s dangerous, I don’t want anything happening to you.”

“Just like you, always so careful,” Freddie braved a kiss on Jensen’s lips, “Always so smart.”

Too easy.

Too familiar.

Jensen returned the kiss.

It was like everything had fallen into place again. Like nothing had changed, like this had all just been a terrible dream and he was waking up from it. Freddie was familiar, real, human… 

Human.

_“I’m choosing to be human. It’s my choice.”_

Harkness. _‘Oh my god, Harkness!’_

Jensen’s eyes flung wide open with horror at the realization of what he had done. He pushed Freddie away, hands gripping tight with fear on the other boy’s shoulder. He couldn’t look at Freddie, he couldn’t do this to Harkness. God… Oh God, poor Harkness, he must be worried sick. Poor idiot always got his wires crossed whenever he left for too long. Jesus Christ, how long had he been gone?

“Jenny? What’s wrong?”

Jensen’s own breathing was hard, ragged, sudden. Knots tied into his stomach and he could feel his palms tremble and grow clammy.

“Jenny! Jenny, are you alright?”

He could barely hear Freddie. The other boy tried to hold him, shushing him gently, “Hey, hey it’s okay, it’s okay! Jenny, what’s wrong?”

Jensen began to sob. “I’m… I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m so sorry, Freddie.”

“Jenny?”

“I… I’m sorry I shouldn’t have done that,” he couldn’t look at Freddie, “I… There’s already someone else. Someone up on the surface.”

Freddie’s hands flew off Jensen like he had touched a hot surface, “...Someone else?”

“I’m so sorry, Freddie.”

There was no hiding the hurt on Freddie’s face, “Why didn’t… why didn’t you tell me?”

Jensen shook his head, “I’m sorry. I just…” he was at a loss for words, “I just… do you know they gave me a name up there? They call me all sorts’a things; One-Oh-One, the Lone Wanderer, the Ell-Double-You. It’s crazy.”

Freddie kept his gaze squarely on the floor.

“I… saved a really good man from some really bad people, I helped him find his identity,” Jensen watched as Freddie got up from the floor, “I… I can’t come back to you, Freddie.”

Jensen had no words for what Freddie said next, “...So why’d you come back down here if you’ve got a whole life up there?”


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jensen learns the real meaning of "home is where the heart is".

  
The hours and days ticked away on the vault computer. Alphonse Almodovar watched as the seconds turned to minutes, and then to hours. He inhaled, exhaled. Did whatever he could to ground himself in the present moment.

Before him on a terminal, in dull green letters read a report from Officer Gomez. Men identifying themselves as the Enclave have been requesting access into Vault 101. That had been two weeks ago. The most recent report talked about tunnelling efforts, but the Enclave hadn’t made it very far-- barely penetrating the outermost stone walls.

Quiet frustration snapped in a quick release of energy, his fists slammed down on his desk, his fingers twitching with impossible fear. What were those rebels thinking? Why would they risk the safety of the vault this way?

“Overseer?” A security personnel called over the intercom, “Overseer, you have a visitor.”

He pushed the reply button, “Has Amata come to her senses, then? Can this… revolt finally put itself to bed and we can work on this threat?”

The security officer stayed quiet.

“Well?”

“It’s... Miller, sir.”

Alphonse’s eyes shot wide open. Miller? Jensen Miller? An ironic smile spread across his face, “Miller wants to talk?”

“I can’t say, sir, I can station some men with you if you think he’s gonna be trouble.”

“No need, officer,” Alphonse eyed the top drawer of his desk, “Resume your positions outside, I’ll deal with him if need be.”

The officer didn’t sound convinced, but relented, “Very well, sir.” The intercom then crackled to silence.

Alphonse pulled the drawer open, and there, a prized, pre-War Magnum pistol seemed to dazzle under the fluorescent lights in his office. He pulled it out and began to inspect it, eyeing the detailed patterns etched onto the grip and the gleam of the metal.

He would make sure the world wouldn’t miss Jensen Miller. That boy and his antics on the surface was the reason why the Enclave banged on their door. That boy and his damned father was the reason why their home, his Vault, was falling so fast.

One bullet and a well-timed shot, that was all Alphonse needed to do. Oh, Amata would never forgive him, but such sacrifices are expected of leaders…

...Right?  


* * *

  
It felt like nearly forever, _20 days, 3 hours, 42 minutes and 10 seconds specifically_ , since Andrew Harkness had seen Jensen Miller. And all he could do, logically, was to take up his rifle and do his nightly patrols around Rivet City, as he always had done.

He made his final rounds around the Marketplace; Bannon was putting away the last of his merchandise, Gary Staley was clearing away dishes while Angela wiped down tables, Seagrave was still staring daggers at Bannon from his position on the catwalk. Everyone was where they should be.

“Evenin’, Chief,” Flak greeted with a grin, “All clear, I hope?”

 _Remember to smile, it makes you look human._ “No trouble so far,” Harkness eyed the shop, _no threats detected, no abnormalities detected, section clear,_ “But you’re asking for a reason, Flak.”

On cue, Flak pulled out a round of ammunition, a line of energy cells, shiny and new, “Came off some egghead up North, traded me for some standard mag rounds, these are a beaut’,” he held one up for Harkness to see, “Thought you might be interested.”

Harkness eyed them, _Refurbished, AAC54-23 type: modified for more accurate shots with less power_ , “I am, keep ‘em in the stock when I come by tomorrow morning.”

“The 54-23 model’s nice, but that only works for a distance of over 300 meters,” Harkness heard a voice that made his synthetic blood run cold.

No, it couldn’t be. That voice…?

“Mil--” he whipped his head around, his grip tight around his rifle, “... Jesus, I’m hearing things,” he whispered to himself.

“Hey, Chief?” Flak leaned over the counter, eyes wide with concern, “You alright?”

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m fine.” _Cite lack of sleep._ “I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Better talk to Doc Preston about that,” Flak beamed, “Shrapnel… he’s been having sleeping troubles too. Doc gave him a pill that put him right to bed.”

“I can hear you, Flak,” Shrapnel bit back from his crouched position, locking up the rest of the stock, “Hurry up with those e-cells, we’re closing up-- ah, but you can stay if you want, Chief.”

“It’s alright, gentlemen, I’ll be finishing up my rounds,” Harkness gave a nod of his head, “Take care of yourselves.”

_“Be good, you two!”_

Why was this happening?

His patrol had been anything but routine that night. Every time he saw a flash of blue from the corner of his eyes, he ran diagnostics. All systems operational.

That couldn’t be right. Why was he seeing and hearing these things? The organ that stood-in for his heart was beating hard against his chest. Every. Single. Time.

Flashes of blue and yellow from a vault jumpsuit, the sound of good-natured laughter and a terrible, outdated joke. And yet, it always returned with the same results: _All systems operational._

As he walked down narrow hallways of the old airship carrier, he was haunted by the feeling of a presence behind him, walking by him closely, close enough that he could almost feel the body heat radiating off him. He would half expect arms to wrap around his waist playfully, “There’s my big scary security chief.”

But every time he turned around, it was the same thing: _All systems operational._

“Damn it.”

Harkness knew about Pinkteron, knew about his capabilities. Hell, the old man’s saved his life a few times over now, technically. What if… he could flush the memories of Jensen? Then he wouldn’t be running around thinking he was going crazy, right?

And anyway, Miller’s dead. Had to be. Has to be. What would be the point of… 

“Bullshit,” he hissed, sharp and angry.

Inhale. Exhale. _Get it together, man._ He straightened himself up, tightened his hold on his weapon, and continued his patrol. As he made his way out onto the flight deck, he couldn’t help but keep his gaze on the broken bow of the old carrier ship.  


* * *

  
Jensen had expected more… yelling during his confrontation with the Overseer. Instead, he was politely directed to take a seat for a friendly chat, and was even given a hot cup of tea. When was the last time he had tea?

“Well? Are you going to stand there all day, wastelander?” The venom in the insult wasn’t lost on the intrepid Lone Wanderer, despite the friendly gestures beforehand.

Still, the insult stung deep. How long, he wondered, did the Overseer practice that word over and over again? Pouring every ounce of spite he could spare so that every time he said it, it’d hit as hard as a punch to the jaw?

“Sorry,” Jensen didn’t mean to sound curt, or rude, “Was just… expecting you to shoot me by this point.”

“The idea’s a tempting one, but I doubt you’d give me the opportunity so openly,” Alphonse leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his knuckles, the chair creaking as he did so, “But I cannot let the situation degenerate into violence again.”

Jensen took the offered seat, hands gripping tight on the arm rest, legs tense and ready to spring into action. Just what was he up to?

“Oh, calm down,” the Overseer shook his head, “I’m a little insulted that you’d think I’d be ready to beat you senseless.”

“Hard to think otherwise, after what you did to Jonas.”

“Jonas was going to follow your father, and while regrettable, I have never condoned the violence that caused his passing,” the Overseer straightened up in his seat, “I believe you’ve got far better sense than Officer Mack,” he then folded his hands neatly in front of him, offering his choices, “We can talk this out like adults, or we can fight about it like wastelanders, take your pick.”

His grip tightened with every mention of the insult, “We can talk, sure.”

“So, why did you really come back? Done with the dust and ruins of the Wastelands, then?”

Jensen looked away, defiant.

“Got tired of looking for Daddy, then? Thought you could just give up and slink back home like a teen missing curfew?”

Fire ignited in his eyes, and from the smirk his opponent flashed, Jensen realized the Overseer had gotten where he needed to be: under his skin.

“Well, Dad died, so you can start popping the champagne if you’d like.”

He was half expecting just exactly that. Corks popping, jolly music playing, confetti blasting out of the vents… he was instead surprised by the shocked, near sympathetic look the Overseer wore on his face.

Was this genuine… or was this a ploy of some sort?

“Oh, he died…?” A solemn nod, “I see,” he focused his gaze on Jensen again, “Is that why you returned?”

Why did he return? God, this would have been so much easier if he just came back because of his dad being dead. But that wasn’t really it, not truly, and Jensen knew deep down he couldn’t admit to the spite that drove him back to Vault 101.

“Do you want the truth?”

“I see no reason to lie, waster.”

Jensen’s nose scrunched at the insult, “I have a name, you know.”

“And I’ll use it when I believe you’re not a threat to my home.”

He relented, “I didn’t want to abandon my home like Dad did.”

A huff of a laugh escaped the Overseer’s restraint, “Abandon your home? My boy, this was never your home to begin with, you must know that by now.”

Jensen’s crestfallen look was all the Overseer needed to continue.

“Don’t give me that,” he rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest, “You’re welcome no longer in this Vault, you’re tainted.”

“It was still my home.”

“Do I care?” The Overseer got up from his seat, his gaze hard and unforgiving on the young lad seated before him, “Your father’s actions have put my Vault, my home,” a finger pointed out the convex window, “Their home, in direct danger.”

“They didn’t need my dad to do that!” Jensen remained in the chair, but the fury in his eyes burned bright, “They found out you lied to them about the outside world! This whole time you just had it sitting on a file, of course they’d find out!”

“You’re as daft as you are infuriating,” he pushed himself off the desk and turned to face the computer terminals behind him, “I lied to protect them from the outside, to prevent them from waltzing outside, gay as they please, and then getting killed.”

Jensen’s gaze followed him as he walked towards a collection of photographs on a shelf, each one framed neatly and carefully.

“I needed to keep them from making the same mistake our generation did when we were their age,” he picked up a photograph, a woman with long dark hair, and he tenderly ran a finger down the side of the frame, “Some of us already lost loved ones out there long ago. We won't lose any more today.”

Jensen’s features softened. Amata’s mother. He remembered reading the files. Much as he hated the Overseer… Amata was his best friend. He understood.

“No one has to lose their lives today,” Jensen tried.

“I know you’ve been talking to those rebels,” the Overseer placed the photograph back, “Tell me, how is opening the Vault going to help us?”

“We don’t have to argue about who’s right or wrong,” Jensen’s shoulders softened, “We can work together to find a solution for all this.”

“Oh, this should be amusing, so you’ve come to repent, is that it? To fix what you and your father started?”

Jensen looked down, “Sure, if that’s what you want to think, but you and I both know that the reason doesn’t matter-- you want a solution, and I’ve got an idea.”

“Oh, do you? What makes you think you know how to better protect this Vault?”

“Honestly? Look out there, you don’t have enough people to stay isolated down here forever.”

Defiance, then anger, as the Overseer sputtered out, “So our numbers have dwindled since the Vault opened two hundred years ago, it happens in any community,” he turned to face Jensen, ready to dispense his truth, “By my calculations, we have pure genetic material to last us for another…” and then, horror, shame and then, despair, “... for a few more generations.”

The admission came out like a stubborn tooth. Jensen couldn’t help the clever little smile on his face.

“Proud that you’re right and I’m wrong, is that it?”

“No, just glad that we’re finally on the same page.”

A sigh as the Overseer dragged his hands down his face, “As much as I want to keep the Vault going for as long as I need it to… I can’t.”

“Oh come on, why not?”

“This may come as a shock to you, but this isn’t a matter of pride,” from a neat stack of printouts, the Overseer plucked the topmost sheet and slid it over to Jensen across the desk, “Your actions out there have led to some interesting characters paying our home a visit.”

Jensen’s eyes went wide as he saw the name printed, clear as day, on the paper, “The Enclave?”

“I take it you’ve met them.”

“But how… how could they--?”

“Well, one morning I woke up to find that our sensors had picked up another signal not too long after you left,” the Overseer flicked the dial on, and soon, a familiar voice filled the office.

_“Ladies and gentlemen… this looks like the end of 101.”_

“Three Dog.”

“I personally find him grating.”

The shocked look on Jensen’s face prompted the Overseer to continue his questioning.

“So, do your solutions cover this or are you here to waste more of my time, wastelander?”

Jensen paused for a moment, and then his dark brown eyes lit up with inspiration. He looked right at the Overseer, locking his gaze onto the older man, and with a voice loaded with determination, and said, “Bring Amata in,” ideas rolled into bigger and grander things in his mind, spinning faster and faster in his mind, “I think I know how we can all walk away from this happy and safe.”  


* * *

  
The sloshing of water echoed through rusted metal walls as Harkness made his way through the old broken bow of Rivet City. The quiet clicking of Mirelurks claws could be heard softly in the distance, too far to be a threat, but just convenient enough to cover his excuse.

From the waterlogged hallways to the flooded rooms, the security chief finally made his way to the drier, more sturdier upper decks of the broken ship. He noticed reinforced steel beams and makeshift framework to hold up the sagging ceilings, Pinkerton had been busy.

“Who’s out--oh, it’s you,” speak of the devil.

“Pinkerton, evening,” Harkness gave a respectful nod of his head, his rifle primed and ready, looking every part like the handsome security chief he was, “Have the ‘Lurks been giving you trouble?”

The old man was dressed in his ratty pink hoodie, Harkness wondered if he picked it to match his name, and was leaning against the door to his workshop, a lazy cigarette barely clinging to life in between his knobby fingers.

“I didn’t call for a cleanup crew, _robot_ ,” Pinkerton’s eyes narrowed, and his wrinkles seemed to grow deeper with each expression he made under the harsh, makeshift lighting, “Or did Li and her merry band of sycophants complain again?”

“Just thought I’d check in, it’s been a while, Doc.”

Pinkerton raised a bushy brow, “Checking in, huh?” And then, a low, amused chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Harkness tried to intimidate him to silence, he was the Security Chief after all, but he should have known better than to try with Pinkerton.

The old man grinned, “You know, for all their smarts, the Institute sure didn’t spare any for you, huh?”

Harkness’s brows furrowed in frustration, “I’m patrolling.”

“No you’re not,” Pinkerton stepped back into his workshop, “You’re here for something, what is it?” His voice carried out into the damp hallway, “Call yourself a man all you want, but you sure don’t lie like one.”

Harkness took the invitation and followed the doctor in. His eyes scanned the room, analyzing the terminals stacked on top of one another. The screens flickering with numbers and data and graphs, the notes strewn about, books cracked open with their pages dog-eared, the mess, the lack of discipline…

… it reminded him of Miller.

_All systems operational. Bullshit._

“C’mon tin can, out with it, you’re not here sniffing around my lab just ‘cause you’re here to clear out the ‘Lurks.”

It had only been a moment, but to Harkness, it felt like an eternity. _Do I tell him? No. It’s none of his business. But I’m hearing things, this can’t be right._ Finally, he answered, “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Pinkerton raised a brow as he made his way to his workstation, “Oh yeah?”

“I’m seeing things,” he looked away, and sure enough, in his peripheral vision, he saw it again; the flash of blue and gold from a vault jumpsuit, “And I’m hearing things too.” Laughter, familiar laughter. Warm, loving laughter he could feel on his skin and in his ears.

“Hearing things, seeing things,” Pinkerton tapped a curious finger to his chin, “You didn’t try to fix it yourself did you?” And then, a realization, “You didn’t let that nosy vaultie do anything uhh…” he looked up, then down quizzically at Harkness’s form, “He didn’t do anything...weird to your wiring, did he?”

“No, sir,” he answered, eyes still down and far away from the present moment, “I was hoping maybe you could help,” and then a quiet confession, “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

That seemed to appeal to Pinkerton’s ego enough, so much so, Harkness caught a grin on the old bastard’s face, “Well shit, it’s not like I have anything better to do,” he patted the old cracked surface of the gurney in his lab, “Strap yourself in, it’s gonna be a long night.”

“It’ll take that long?”

“Depends on how fucked your wiring is.”

Harkness frowned, “The others are gonna be suspicious.”

“That’s their problem,” Pinkerton began pulling out medical and mechanical tools, wheeling around monitors and impressive loops of colored cables, “You’re down here clearing the mirelurks from making a nest, that bitch queen is back with a new clutch.”

The clever look from Pinkerton was all the permission Harkness needed. He closed the door to the lab behind him and made his way to the station, pulling a privacy screen for them both, just in case.

“Okay…” came a nervous breath, “What do you need me to do?”

Pinkerton chuckled, “Start it off like any good night, _robot_ ,” the old man pulled a surgeon’s mask over his face, and snapped on a pair of gloves to match, “Take your clothes off.”  


* * *

  
Hours passed since Jensen escorted Amata Almodovar into the Overseer’s office. Security personnel barred the door, while rebels and supporters waited anxiously by the atrium catwalks, desperately trying to look into the window, trying to find a clue to what fate Vault 101 would face.

It had been a risky move, but with the discovery of the vault’s shrinking genetic pool and the threat of the Enclave, Jensen felt as though he had been backed into a corner. The vault needed a choice made for its residents, and needed it quickly. His position as a mediator for the meeting was cut out for him-- Wasteland squabbles over water and resources seemed so much more manageable than what had gone down in that office. Stacks of reports were slammed down on tables, photos were shared, points were argued. Tempers flared, cooled and reconciled. The highs were high and the lows were low.

But victory came all the same when the Overseer’s office doors opened with a silent hiss. Out came the opposing forces, walking together side-by-side, solemn as leaders ought to be. While Alphonse carried himself with a stoic distance, the frays in Amata’s hair and the red in her eyes showed passion and heart.

The eerie silence outside the atrium was amplified by the intense gaze that the vault residents gave to the trio as they took their stand to the center of the room. Alphonse looked to the rebels-- weary youths looking for a chance to make a desperate change. Amata looked to the supporters-- older folk who only want nothing more than reassurance and protection for their families.

It was Alphonse who spoke first, “Everyone... Listen closely. After a discussion with our friend from the Wastelands… I've made an important decision.”

Every resident hung on his every word.

“In my attempts to keep us all safe, I have been, perhaps, overzealous,” there was no hiding the shame in his voice. Everyone saw how Alphonse cast a sidelong glance at Amata who nodded at his statement.

“Lives have been lost, but perhaps worse than that, lives have been stopped,” he turned to face the rebels, addressing them directly, “And in my attempts to keep you safe, I have kept you from growing up.” 

It was so strange to Jensen to see the Tunnel Snakes, all bunched up in their leather jackets and impossibly styled hair, actually agree with the Overseer-- so often they were the first suspects whenever anything went wrong in the vault. Then again, he had to wonder if the Tunnel Snakes simply joined the rebels because it was directly in opposition of the Overseer.

“I know I have made these mistakes. And I would make them again if I had to do so,” Alphonse then turned to face the over residents, meeting and holding his gaze with each person, “That is why I cannot remain your Overseer.”

The residents erupted in excited chatter. Stepping down? Was that even possible? The last Overseer kicked the bucket, bought the farm, was taken out to pasture, were Overseers even allowed to step down and elect a new one? 

Alphonse turned to Amata now, the proud beam in his eyes noticeable even to the least perceptive of residents, “Amata, I appoint you Overseer in my place. You've proven you have what it takes to make hard choices for the good of the Vault,” he smiled sadly, eyes cast downwards in shame, “I'm just sorry I didn't understand that earlier. Consider it one of many mistakes I've made.”

Even Amata seemed shocked at the decision, despite it being agreed upon just moments ago in the meeting room of the office. She looked to Jensen, smile wide, as she reached out and met the grip of his hands, squeezing it in support for each other.

“Thank you, father. I'll do my best to keep us all safe, inside the Vault and beyond,” she smiled at him, her voice barely heard over the relieved cheer of the rebels… and the families. Jensen noted how Freddie Gomez, in all the swagger of his Tunnel Snakes outfit, didn’t hold back when his father, in his security personnel armor, rushed over to give a hug. Families were united, the hope of normalcy returning washed over every resident present.

But the raised hand of Amata silenced the excited crowd, even Jensen turned to see what more his childhood friend had to add, “However… as relieved as I am to finally put this conflict to an official end, and to begin a new era for our home, I… have to carry out my first action as Overseer.”

“Amata?” Jensen noted the way her attention focused on him.

“On behalf of the Vault, I thank you for all you've done,” then she tore her gaze away from his, and removed her hands from his, “But there are still many who blame you for everything that happened.”

“Wait, Amata… what are you saying?”

“You saved us.”

“This was my home,” Jensen tried, “Of course I’d try to help any way I could.”

“As… admirable as that might be, as admirable as your actions were, I… have a very difficult decision to make.”

Everyone watched in silence, even Jensen wasn’t sure where this would lead.

“Amata, are you sure?” Alphonse asked.

“I am,” she affirmed, “As my first official action as Overseer of Vault 101, I… I… “

“Amata?” Jensen did not like where this was going.

“I'm sorry,” her voice was quiet, before she regained her confidence once more, eyes now wet with tears, “You're a hero... and you have to leave.”

Jensen’s whole world crashed.

First his dad.

Now his home.

He barely registered it when he fell to his knees, “But… but Amata, this… this is my home! This is my home!”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Amata! No, what? No! You can’t--you can’t just kick me out!”

“I’m sorry, Jensen.”

“Sorry? That’s all you have to say?” His movements became erratic, his eyes tearing up, and his mind scrambled with confusion.

“Jensen, please try to understand--”

“Amata, this is crazy!” he breathed heavily in shock, “Jesus Christ, Amata! I--I helped you! I-- I wanted to help because this was my home! This is my home!”

“But it’s not, is it?” Amata tried, “You’ve… you’ve always been an outsider, haven’t you?”

“Amata!” Jensen tried to reach out to grab her, but she stepped back fast enough that he fell right back to the floor. The crowd gasped and began to chatter amongst themselves at the sight, some called for Jensen to stay, others for him to leave.

“Let the boy back in, he’s had enough!”

“Send him back out! That’s where he’s from isn’t he?”

“This was his dad’s fault anyway!”

“But he helped us!”

The cries deafened the Lone Wanderer, as he sat there, barely comprehending the decision being made for him.

“You see?” She gestured, “If you stay, it'll just keep causing more problems, the Vault can't take any more in-fighting,” she sighed, looking away from Jensen, “It's just what has to be.”

“Amata, you can’t do this to me!”

“Jensen, I don’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice! Damnit, Amata, why?”

“Because this vault needs to heal, and while you did everything you could to help--” she drew in a sharp breath, composing herself in the excitement, “--You said so yourself, when you ate dinner with us: you’ve got a whole life out there.”

“Amata!”

But his words fell upon unheeding ears, “It'll be awhile before we're ready to really go outside, but once the Vault is stable again, maybe we'll see you out there,” her words felt like a bandaid over a broken arm.

“After everything I’ve done?” Tears streamed freely down his face now, “Amata! You--You ungrateful--”

“I’m sorry, Jensen.”

“You can’t just kick me out!”

“C’mon, Nosebleed,” Butch pulled Jensen up, “Screw it, if this is what the new Overseer is gonna be like, then fuck it, we ain’t got nothing here.”

“Butch?” Jensen blinked up at him, “Butch, wh-- why? I thought you wanted--?”

“Listen, poindexter, I wanted out, I never said nothing about wanting to stay.”

“Wh… I can’t… I don’t want to leave…”

“Yeah well? I’m calling it. Fuck this place and fuck the Overseer,” he glared daggers at the Almodovars, “Both of ‘em!”

He hauled Jensen up, dusted his shoulders and pointed back to the apartments, “Let’s go get our stuff, Nosebleed.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure, okay.”

The crowd parted as the pair made their way back into the dark bowels of the Vault, resigning to their exile with each heavy, burdened footstep.  


* * *

  
It had been an excruciating procedure. It was not unlike the routine maintenance work the doctors and technicians would do back in the Synth Retention Bureau. Weekly to monthly, every courser worth his leathers would be sat on medical tables, their artificial skin freezing against the cold metal surface. He remembered being offered nothing in the way of modesty, just a flimsy privacy screen and cool indifference from the scientists.

He didn’t know if it had been his human side, or a long-standing affect of being among humans for so long, but it amused Pinkerton to no end when he insisted on a towel to cover his ‘bits’.

“Bits,” Pinkerton laughed, “ _Robot_ , they only put that on you just to say they can.”

His back had been cut open, the ports on his spine exposed, wires and cables trailing out from synthetic flesh and into monitors and terminals, each screen displaying a different statistic, graphs falling and rising with gentle mathematical curves.

“Right, hold still,” Pinkerton held the tools deftly in his hands, as Harkness bent over to allow the scientist to examine his hardware, “...Hmm, says ‘all systems operational’ on this end.”

“But… that can’t be it.”

“I’m afraid that is it,” Pinkerton huffed, dabbing the sweat off his brow, “I looked at every piece of equipment, every chipset, every driver, every single thing,” he grimaced as he pulled cables out of Harkness’s robotic spine, “Save for a couple of tune-ups here and there… I’m getting the same thing: all systems operational, no errors found.”

That couldn’t be. He could still hear the laughter, the flashes of blue…

He felt the sensation of a needle piercing his skin, and his head jerked in a robotic motion to see Pinkerton injecting him with Med-X.

“I’m gonna be turning on your sensory systems one by one once I yank the rest of these cables out,” he explained as coolly as the Institute scientists had, “Gradual doses, so if you’re yelling, you’re not getting another shot ‘til I say you can.”

In that moment, on the operating table, he didn’t feel human. Humans went under in a deep sleep during surgery, humans died when their spines were exposed like his was. Even as the feelings returned to his limbs in painful pins-and-needles, he still didn’t feel human. Didn’t feel like a man. Men didn’t sit there, unflinching, as doctors sewed them back up. Even men like Flak and Shrapnel, tough as they were, would cry and scream when they were sat in Doctor Preston’s office after a bar brawl.

“So…” he winced, “Why… why am I seeing things?”

“Well, maybe it’s not so much your optics that are failing, but something else,” he clucked his tongue as he tried to straighten out the thread, “What’re you seeing? Maybe that’ll help.”

“You a psychologist too?”

“Keep that jackassery up, _robot_ , see if I’ll keep helping...” 

Harkness didn’t know why felt embarrassed to admit it, but his desperation dragged the answer out into the open, damn the judgement from Pinkerton, “... it’s that vault kid.”

“Huh, 101?”

“Yeah.”

“Heard the bastard might’ve finally ate it out there.”

Harkness grew grim and quiet.

“I’m old and I hate people, but I’m not stupid,” halfway down his back now, “Dumbass sat here getting yelled at by me because he was trying to save your ass, don’t think I didn’t know what was going on between you two.”

Harkness looked down, focusing on the spot between his feet that hung over the table.

Pinkerton didn’t let up, “You ask me though, people don’t get to see scientists like me and ask for a memory wipe or ask what’s going on with the chipset readings in their brain when they get upset.”

“... and I guess you got the answer?”

“How about you try listening, _robot_ ,” Pinkerton huffed, “Regular people don’t ask for memory wipes.”

Harkness was startled at the answer… was Pinkerton giving genuine, sympathetic advice? “So what? People just… what? Deal with it.”

“Shit, the Institute program you to be this dense or did Watts yank out more than she should’ve?” A shake of his head before continuing, “You wanna be more human? Here’s a tip: people carry baggage like that all the time, whether they want to or not.”

Harkness gave a defeated sigh. 

Pinkerton pulled the surgical gloves off with a snap, the synthetic blood staining the white latex, “That’s the tragedy, aint it?” And then off came the mask, “Good kid like that?” He began collecting his tools, “Be a real shame if you just forgot about him, that’d make him dead for real.”

And for the first time that night, the realization made Harkness feel a little more human inside. It didn’t matter if some of his parts blinked with green and red during troubleshooting, it didn’t matter if he would fail metal detection, it didn’t matter if the heart beating in his chest was as mechanical as it was alive…

Robot, android, _synth_ , whatever it was these people called him, he chose to be a man, didn’t he? And good men do not let good people become forgotten memories. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he put his clothes back on and thanked the doctor for his work.


End file.
